Oathsworn
by DrakeTheTraveller
Summary: A clan shattered, a family history tarnished and defamed by traitors. A'den Lok is the sole survivor of cruel injustice. Fate conspires to put an end to the house of Lok, and it will take great sacrifice and greater resolve to shift the tide and restore his clan's good name and power. After all, there's nothing a mandalorian loves more then getting even. (Broken Legacy Revision)
1. Chapter 1

Nar Shadda.

Where most might equate Tatooine to the armpit of the galaxy, the smuggler's moon was considerably more unsavory. Tatooine, with its burning suns and endless seas of gritted sand patrolled by unfriendly natives and hostile wildlife, could be considered paradise in comparison. Not even the most desperate and irrational of sentients dared travel to Nar Shadda at their own discretion. The sentients who condemn themselves to the sullied crossroad of Nar Shadda are two of a kind, those who try to escape their past, or are instead controlled by it.

Regardless of ones reasons, Nar Shadda was no haven. Its maze of anarchic spires and lawless slums were far more dangerous than the hottest deserts and most violent of tusken raiders. Even the mighty Krayt Dragon was not as precarious. Such threats, be it unfavorable environmental conditions or violent indigenous lifeforms, could be remedied with proper provisioning. Nar Shadda was different, a place that would not, and could not be controlled.

The Empire, with all its power and authority, possessed the shrewd perspicacity to understand that the effort necessary to purge both Nar Shadda and the swamp world of Nal Hutta which it orbited, was simply not worth the expenditure in personnel and resources. And so, through the sheer irritancy of their existence were they allowed to endure, and even thrive, though the industries in which they exceled were an affront to galactic decency. There was no law, save for what the hutt's decreed, and their interpretation of galactic legislation was as dubious as their business ethic. The hutts as a species, regardless of wealth or social stratum, upheld a singular universal mandate.

Profit, at any and all cost.

They dealt in business that were the most profitable, regardless of the suffering inflicted. Drug distribution, slave trafficking, piracy, assassination, corporate espionage, the profession did not matter so long as it was lucrative. To live under the rule of the hutts was to be without hope in an increasingly hopeless galaxy. There was no deliverance from their fate. The feud between the Rebellion and the Empire was only another hardship compounded upon their punitive existence as servants to the hutts, often working to the point of death to feed the bloated organism that was war-time commerce. Good and evil were abstract constructs the average hutt did not possess the capacity to comprehend. Their eyes were set only upon business, and war was always good for business. Lesser organizations might have feared repercussions for their opportunistic methodology. But they were unconcerned with such trivial apprehensions.

The Hutts were of a dynasty nearly as old as the first galactic treaties. They had ruled during the ancient sith wars, and through the mandalorian crusades. Their sovereignty was as eternal and undisputed as the stars. No galactic government of any good sense, Republic or Empire, had bothered to deal with the migraine that was hutt space. There was an unspoken agreement of sorts that had been long established. So long as their proclivities did not overtly interfere with galactic operations, then they were allowed to govern themselves.

This they were more than content to agree with.

So it was, with all these things in consideration, that it was to no grand unveiling that A'den Lok considered Nar Shadda to be nothing more than a vile cesspit of wanton anarchy and ravenous corruption. Little good ever came from dealing with the hutts or their kind. And the dangers were more prolific than the rewards. Even so, there were was no other place in the galaxy that was as lucrative for a man of his profession.

There was always a need for mercenaries on Nar Shadda.

Contract work was the lifeblood of hutt space and the word mercenary had undergone many alterations through the millennia. The bread and butter of the modern mercenary had grown beyond simplicity, no longer was it just protect this, kill that, blow up this… etc. The world for mercenaries had expended, practically overnight after the conclusion of clone wars. Once, the market had been flooded with jobs, mostly from the CIS, but a few with the republic. Now, with the Confederacy little more than a shadow of itself, and the Empire's general disfavor with any hired gun not intrinsically loyal to their cause, the well had dried, if only for a while.

While the average merc might have turned to less and less reputable means of filling their boots and fueling their ships, the more entrepreneuring individual put their ear to the ground, kept an eye out for different opportunities. And there were many, if you were smart enough to see them.

After the war, the Empire had taken its bloated military budget and slapped it across the face of the free market. As one could imagine a contract with the Empire held the equivalence of a blank check. Given the predatory nature of corporations at the best of times, competition soon became deadly, in a very literal sense. And with all decent business men, they had such unpleasant industry… outsourced.

Work in the private sector exploded, but not in the usual ways. Certainly there were still the traditional contracts, but things had changed. Employers didn't so much want hired muscle as much as hired brains, expert hackers, shrewd data analysts… spies. Suddenly the mercenary game had evolved into a new field.

It was lucrative, limitless, and Lok wanted absolutely nothing to do with it.

He had not become mercenary to stare at computers or break codes, and he most definitely did not see himself infiltrating an office complex under the guise of a clerk. His pride would not allow such a debasement of his profession. So, faced with a crisis, he adapted.

Lok did what any self-respecting person would do.

He changed careers.

He became a bounty hunter.

The work was not overall different. There were still contracts, they just came with certain rules… stipulations one could say. More often than not the most difficult being the fact he had to bring in most of his quarry alive. Seeing as any sentient with the remotest of intellect would not willingly enter confinement, especially when there was typically a death sentence waiting for them, that generally made his work difficult.

Luckily, his most recent employer was an exception to the standard. The man very much preferred his targets dead, and that was a stipulation Lok was more than happy to oblige. Recently, his job title seemed misconstrued, exceeding, perhaps, more than its base intention. Although he figured the word assassin might have left a sour taste in the mouth of the more public-spirited individual.

Lok personally did not hold such constrictive world views.

Work was work, and as long as the credits kept rolling in and his employer kept to his end of their contract, the bounty hunter could give less of a bantha's ass about the judgmental perception of an outsider. Not that he'd care to indulge the bloated, opinionated lethargy of the_ aruetiise_.

Especially not on some asinine backwater like Nar Shadda.

If he had the power and authority, he would have turned this all to glass long ago. However, seeing as he lacked power, authority, and influence, he'd settle for hocking up a nice phlegmy spit onto the stained ferrocrete pavement outside a dingy cantina buried deep in the seediest underbelly of this damned moon. Not that a little spit could ever compete with the innumerable fluids that had been spilled on the streets. When you lived in a place where blood and shit was the least disgusting waste you might encounter on a daily basis, spit was hardly an afterthought.

Felt nice though…

Lok sighed, the sound long and dragging through the evening smog as he inhaled one last puff from his cigarette, a meager contribution to the polluted air of a heavily industrialized world. Glancing at his chronometer with a mildly disinterested expression, he snuffed it on the sole of his boot and flicked the butt into the cluttered refuse littering the side street opposite the object of his attention. The bounty hunter rolled his shoulders and unclipped his helmet from his utility belt, donning the heavy helm of precast _beskar_ as he stepped out from the shadows and crossed the street, thankful for the filters that offered a temporary reprieve from the odor of filth that congested the air.

Down here in this filthy petri dish of disease and death the air was only a few molecules away from poison, harsher even then the smoke he willingly inhaled. For the few minutes he took to burn one out he could already _feel_ the taste on his lips, the filmy grime of a dying moon clinging even to his teeth. It was a palate that would take days to cleanse. And if that was not motivation enough to get this whole thing over with, he wasn't sure there was anything that could.

Crowds were sparse at this late hour, a few gangs patrolling their territories and more than a couple of wandering addicts, hoping to scrounge up some credits for their next fix. They were a pitiable sight, threadbare clothes draped over emaciated bodies scarred up by injections and vicious fights with their neighbors.

Lok did not pity them. He hardly gave the wastrels a second glance as he strode to the cantina, the heavy trod of his metal boots echoing through the air. These were the kinds of sentients that would stab a child for less than a handful of credits and would sell their own kin for even less.

His appearance as he materialized from the alley's shadow garnered a reaction that was to be expected. Upon notice the gangs, sentients cut on the block living in one of the harshest environments of the galaxy, turned and fled, abandoning their territory for the night. Addicts scrambled back into the shadows with whimpers and cries of fright, vanishing into their dens until what passed for a sunrise in this buried hellhole.

The bounty hunter could only grin, drinking in the fear and despair with dark satisfaction, letting it bubble up and swell inside him. While he did not possess the sway to burn this world to cinder, he had at least created for himself a lasting reputation. Nar Shadda was a place where only the hardened could survive. Lok had made it his singular goal not only to survive, but to thrive. Reputation was everything to a mercenary, and he had ensured that his repute was being the biggest, baddest shark in the pond.

And tonight, he was ready to carve another notch into his armor. He already knew where to make his mark, upper torso, left pectoral, completing the set of four already gouged into the breastplate of pure mandalorian iron. That'd make it his fifth target set by his handler, and thus far not one of the previous bounties had been wanting. They had all been dangerous, cunning, and desperate, the perfect prey for a predator such as himself. Lok was a man that liked to be challenged, and as these past months had shown him; his most recent client was ready and able to sate his appetite.

And yet, as he stepped into the cantina's doorway, he could feel something at the back of his thoughts, a cool bristling that brushed against his blood addled contemplation. He could feel the warning, not of risk, in his occupation risk was inherent and he constantly skirted with his mortality. No, this was… different, not the stabbing heat associated with danger, but a warm wind, neither agreeable nor troublesome. The sense he gathered was mild, placid, a precautionary tale of change, though whether it heralded itself as good or bad was beyond his divination. His connection with the force had never been of a prophetic nature. His bond had always been abrasive, combative, suited more for a warrior then a priest.

Regardless of his personal stance, he would not ignore sage advice, as mysterious and enigmatic as it may be. The force spoke to him, though not in a voice or with words, but through feeling, through intent. It offered him secrets through sense rather than word, that past these doors he'd find an answer to a question, though he had no questions and he was not searching for answers. Either way he'd still do what he came here for. After all, the sooner he finished up the sooner he could leave this miserable moon, bringing him one step closer to securing the resources he needed.

Waiving a gauntlet at the motion detector beside the door, Lok stepped into the cantina as the rectangular slab of durasteel slid into its anchor. The index finger on his right hand twitched with the anticipation that coiled through his body, like the winding scales of a serpent. His boot landed on the first step leading down into the smoky haze below, the heavy iron of its sole slamming against the rockcrete with a deep boom as several hundred kilograms of muscle, weapons, and armor bore down upon it.

He paused only for a moment, to study the lingering echoes in the force, before his stride continued down the steps into the deceptively expansive volume of the underground smuggler's den. The bounty hunter cast his presence out like an unseen wave, brushing against the various seedy individuals spread across the assortment of mismatched chairs and tables. There was of course the unease and fear, as the vagrants glanced at the looming edifice of mandalorian preeminence that had just entered their warren. But this he was used to, and not what he searched for. Instead he waited for the sharp rush of surprise… recognition.

Twisting his jaw and blinking twice in quick succession he activated his HUD software, running a simple facial recognition program as he swept his gaze across the room. His version was not so advanced as to contend with imperial intelligence but that was to be expected, as the Empire only allowed fully leased contractors access to military grade surveillance technology. Seeing as he took pride in his independence, and he had no desire to fabricate ire between himself and a vast interstellar organization, he tolerated such substandard limitations. Either way, his scan wasn't to assist him with his current target, who was far too keen to be documented by limited public domain reconnaissance tech.

Instead its application was ancillary in nature, marking down which sentients had bounties, from highest to lowest. If his original objective wasn't here tonight, if weeks of investigation and surveillance went up in smoke, he'd at least like to make some sort of return for the investment of his time.

Judging by the nervous shuffling that shuddered through a few of the more unscrupulous sentients, they were at least somewhat aware of his intent. Not that it credited their undoubtedly limited intelligence. It didn't take impressive intellect to deduce that trouble had just blown in. The slanted T shape of his visor and the bulk of his armor was more than enough to indicate his professed culture that he took no pains to hide. And every being in the galaxy had learned through the ages that mandalorians were always trouble. Personally, he took it as a point of pride.

His people had cultivated an entire philosophy that turned the chaos of war into a profession, one that had lasted for a millennium, and he had no intention of alienating their legacy. While there were no more wars to fight, at least presently, he was perfectly inclined to hunt.

And tonight, he felt, would be one of his most important.

Throughout his observation he remained motionless in the aperture of the entrance, the crest of his helmet nearly brushing against the frame, spared less than the thickness of a finger. His shoulders broad and packed with muscle, bound under heavy plates of _beskar_, touched either side of the doorway. In his wholeness he was a man that made big men feel small. His father had been lean and wiry, a fighter at distance and a master of acrobatics, with the skill to dance with a rancor and survive, the very trick that had first garnered Ijaat the interest of the woman that was to be Lok's mother.

And while Ijaat was strong and flexible like a root, the son he fathered became a mountain. Mesh'la, his mother, so aptly named for her beauty, was a fierce woman in life, tall and fair, with a womanly strength wholly opposite her husband. She was the one he took most after, his height and ferocity in battle had been inherited on her side. It was eyes like piercing jade and hair as black as death that he acquired from his father.

Together, with compassion and callousness equally, they had raised a warrior, or so at least till fate intervened. Since the day he could walk he had learned the principles of survival, how to hunt and trap, the disassembly and reassembly of his weapons and the intricacy of their maintenance. He had learned of their culture, of their greatest pride and deepest shame. He had studied the six tenets until he could speak them in his sleep, as he often did in his youth, and he learned his place with his people and the importance of their history and its preservation. Unlike the capricious _aruetiise_ their culture was an adamant bulwark against the ravages of time. It could not be warped or destroyed, nor taken or usurped. Bloodlines could not be tainted or eradicated when they held no sway or power. The essence of a mandalorian was not blood, not of flesh and bone, but heritage and legacy.

They were not a species, but a people, their race not born of or constrained by the limits of physicality. To be mandalorian was to embrace a way of life, an ideal. And to each new convert it brought a spiritual freedom that was impossible to find in the false idols and corrupt religions of most pious sects.

There was purity of purpose inherent in all their people, an unshakable conviction in the righteousness of their cause and the unshakable bonds of brotherhood. This was, all too often, to their detriment. More than once had they been led astray, the power of their faith misused and ensorcelled by false prophets and blind promise.

But such thoughts were indulgent, distractions that he had neither the time nor inclination to be preoccupied by. Lok banished the pleasant and not so pleasant recollections of his youth and the teachings of his mother and father, and later, uncle. There was prey yet to be taken, and a hunt not concluded.

The bounty hunter, feeling as though his stance in the doorway had wrought all the intimidation it was likely to engender, stepped deeper in, and upon sighting the horned man that struggled to hide his cower behind the bar, pushed forward to meet him. His stride was sharp and unswerving, his armored bulk cleaving though the smoke with the ease and malice of a honed blade leaping to strike.

Lok took the measure of his forthcoming informant in the breadth of a moment, tall, thin, scarred, and old, likely a cunning one, since he had lived for so long in the bowels of this moon. A creature like him could be dangerous, not to Lok personally of course, he had slain warriors with twice as much guile and skill, but to the likes found down in the depths he could be equated to a leader, possibly of the gang he had seen outside.

Judging by the devaronian's uneasy scowl, he was no doubt aware that the presence of a fully armed and armored mandalorian was bound to have scared off his muscle, even the handful of thuggish weequay loitering in the shadows appeared very much like they wanted to be anywhere else than they were at that moment. They were there mostly to deter the wandering addicts and thieves. To a mandalorian, they were less than chaff.

And everyone in the cantina knew it.

Lok took a certain relish in his superiority, though tempered as it soon was by the realization that the objects of his gloating were pitiable and could hardly claim to be worthy of his time. There was no glory in killing a few destitute thugs. And where glory waned, so did desire.

The mandalorian approached the counter, propping an arm against the surface blemished and discolored by time and filth. Heaving a sigh heavy with the weight of his displeasure, he leaned into the counter and gave the bartender his full and undivided attention. And though the devaronian could not see his eyes, Lok's presence in the force projected more than enough disdain that even a force blind sentient could feel his irritation.

Lok spoke no words, content to let the silence drag. Through his experience in the arts of interrogation and torture he discovered his disdain for such barbarity. There were easier ways to find answers that did not require conceited blustering and the crude infliction of pain. This was especially so given the vast variety in sentient life across the galaxy. The only constant that held any sense of uniformity was the mind. And that, was something he had become good at breaking. All he often needed was a little… implication.

He found the devaronian's unease to be amusing, but more than that it was a tell, one that assured him a stern application of silent intimidation would be quite successful. Less than a minute passed before he was once more vindicated.

"W-What can I do for you?" The man spluttered nervously as he washed the same cup with a filthy rag for the eight time since Lok propped himself on the owner's counter.

Lok did not answer, let a full minute hang in the air, cold and dangerous, before finally reaching into a utility case on his armor. The barkeep's eyes glued to his gauntlet as it carried out his task, and the man let out an audible sigh of relief when he revealed the small holo emitter.

Lok grunted, unamused by the cowardice before him, as he tossed the unit to the bar top. The device flared with bright, blueish light, the photon particles coalescing into the expression of a surly looking human with dark hair and light skin. As the owner of the cantina glanced at the floating display, the bounty hunter scanned the counter, reaching under and retrieving the bottle sequestered underneath.

The barkeep flinched at the action, and seemed torn as he looked to the revealed glass decanter, its clean appearance and expensive shipping label seemingly out of place for an institution with such… personality. Nevertheless, he possessed enough common sense, and his survival instincts were sharp enough to know not to make fuss. That of course, did nothing to hide his bare faced agony as the mandalorian removed his helmet and poured a glass of Corellian whiskey.

The devaronian however, smothered his despair when he laid eye upon the mandalorian's grim countenance. His eyes were dark and flinty, with a gleam of emotion underneath that burned like fire. There was a promise of danger in their dark green glare, and the alien was confident that to refuse cooperation was to welcome bodily harm of the likes he'd never felt before. His mouth was dry, and he swallowed hard.

He flinched again at the sharp rap of steel, and glanced down to see that the bounty hunter had tapped a finger against the base of the holo emitter. "Seen em?" The mandalorian spoke at last, his voice composed and sonorous, deep like an ocean and as unapproachable and cragged as a mountain.

The alien glanced at the mandalorian, armed for war with a personality to match, and looked to the bounty puck. He weighed his options for less than the time it took for him to point to the back of his establishment, a particularly dark and musty corner.

He watched for the hunter's reaction, sighing audibly in relief when the human gave a curt nod, offered a brisk thank you, and pushed off the counter to saunter in the direction indicated, helmet slung under one arm and a bottle of Corellian whiskey in the other.

The devaronian grimaced.

The bottle had cost him an arm and a leg, almost literally, and to watch it disappear with no return profit stung bitterly, but not as much as a blaster bolt between the eyes. Preferring to think on the bright side, he was just happy enough that the crazy bastard would be someone else's problem.

Yet, as he watched the mandalorian collapse into the booth across from another human male, one who bore his unwanted guest with a tight lipped frown, he decided to be cautious and propped a small sign on the counter as he made for the back. Slipping on his coat and testing the holster that held his holdout, he left his cantina under the assumption that this would all be tomorrow's problem.

That was at least, if the building was still there when returned.

With mandalorians you never knew.

"You are a long ways from home, eh _burc'ya?" _Lok sat heavily into the booth, across from a human male that was giving his very best effort to burn the bounty hunter to ash by gaze alone. This, of course, deflected effortlessly off Lok's seemingly pleasant smile, his best attempt at prompting an aura of ease not quite able to douse the flicker of fiery animus behind the emerald tint of his stare.

The other man remained mute, so Lok decided to help himself, summoning a glass from the console at the center of the table. He poured himself a shot of the whiskey the cantina owner had so graciously provided him with and tried to at least inject some civility into this ordeal. Knowing how these things usually transpired, it was nice to take a moment and have a good drink before the vulgarity that was inevitably to ensue. Mandalorian was not synonymous with savage, and despite a way of life that often existed counter to the placidity of other galactic residents, they were more than the brutish, ignorant neandertals they were so often portrayed and likened to by popular media.

Theirs was work that needed done. It was not an appealing image, and those outside the culture would not see the glory in it. The life made by soldiers of fortune lacked much of the romanticization that so many holo vids depicted, but it was a necessity. They performed a valued service to the galactic community, and it was one they were more than glad to perform. In that way they could hardly be blamed for enjoying their jobs. One did not defame a muun banker or besmirch an alderaani teacher for pride in their work. Lok saw no difference between himself and them, well perhaps only in that neither would be much sport in a knife fight.

Lok sipped from the glass, enjoying the burning heat of the whiskey as it trickled down his throat and warmed his stomach. Good liquor was hard to come by on Nar Shadda, just one of the many imperative whys and wherefores that cemented the moon as an irredeemable cesspit of filth. And so he tried, once more in a cycle of repeated failure, to find some redeeming quality on this hellpit of a planetoid. Yet he found the pleasant atmosphere he attempted to create was being wholly overshadowed by the dark glower of the man across from him. The mandalorian exhaled heavily as he set down his glass with a careful elegance.

"General…" He intoned wearily, tone a somber crossbreed of wry cordiality and the first split threads of his fraying forbearance. "You are hardly comporting yourself in a manner suitable for an individual of your… religious persuasion. Please…" Lok reached over the table and placed the lip of the decanter across the rim of a cup. "Have a drink, no need for such sullen conduct. We are men of honor, are we not?"

This, finally, seemed to inject some vigor into the erstwhile rigor mortis of the man's expression. "Honor?" He muttered darkly, casting a gaze at Lok that might have even been of the hateful persuasion, if not for the fact he was supposed to be a man that had thrown away such petty emotion. "What would you know of honor, butcher?

Lok chuckled, though its sound was anything but humorous. "A great deal, more than a _Jetii _could comprehend with such a narrow capacity of dimwitted intellect" The bounty hunter's humored countenance remained untouched, though the man across from him could not sense any levity in the mandalorian. His words were pleasantly toned, but colored with a punitive hostility that sent several patrons of the cantina from their seats and towards the door. Those that had not moved were simply too frozen with fear to act. The very air was heavy with sinister intent, tension layered so thick that it seemed a physical weight pinning them to their seats. They were rooted, trapped, watching the conversation they wanted no part of but played ensnared spectator to.

Lok hunched forward, the heavy pauldrons of his armor shifting and creaking as he moved his considerable bulk in his tight seating. "Now, take a drink before I push a gauntlet through your _fucking_ teeth." The bounty hunter advised his guest with a low snarl of courteously inflected malice.

The man across, after a few moments of quiet observance, inclined his head minutely and sipped lightly from the glass he had been offered. At this the mandalorian smiled, this time somewhat gamely, and leaned away, the hostility in his aura dissipating as he finished his shot and poured himself a second. "There, is this not more agreeable? Is it not better to conduct such business without all that futile bluster and ignorant frivolity?"

"If you say." The man muttered neutrally.

"I do." The mandalorian nodded gravely, reaching into his bandolier to procure a cigarette, which he lit with a sparking flame that sputtered out of a nozzle that emerged from his bracer. The man across eyed the device warily, but his caution was largely ignored by the bounty hunter.

"What do you see when you look at me, General?" Lok mused softly, the burning vivacity in his gaze fading into a reflective simmer as he took a drag. "Do you see a man or a monster? It is no secret to you I imagine, that I have hunted many of your kind _Jetii_. Though not for sport, you understand. Hunting for sport is… distasteful, would you not agree?"

He was, unsurprisingly, met with silence.

Undeterred, he continued nonetheless.

The mandalorian exhaled, filling the space between them with a silver cloud of smoke. "We speak for the sake of decorum, formality if you will. I do this not out of spite. I've been paid of course. This is a service. I have been contracted, and you, are the _contract_. You must know how these things work, General."

He sighed offhandedly, brushing flakes of ash off the table as he waived dismissively with his off hand. "You are not the first and you will not be the last, and they compensate well for my services. So I have to know, given you are the first to entertain my interest without all that pompous blustering you _Jetii _all seem to enjoy so much. Does the nature of my work disgust you? Would it trouble you to say that I have hunted so many of your kind? Are you sickened to learn that I find you to be the most interesting game in the galaxy? And upon knowing this, how do you feel? Do you even have the capability to feel anything, General? Or does that conflict with your silly little code?"

The mandalorian studied the man's eyes, noticed the blazing inferno behind them, and smiled, the whiteness of his teeth contrasting heavily with sun tanned skin, black armored plate, and golden ornamentation.

"Do you hate me, Rahm?" He asked, his smile curling with savage contentment as he leaned closer. "How badly do you wish you flick the switch on that little silver toothpick under the table? How satisfying would it be to strike me down in my chair? If you could muster the will to attack without provocation, you might even succeed… You might even be able to save that young bothan you have hidden away in the back room."

Lok chuckled as he watched a cool rush of fear douse the fiery hatred in Rahm's glare. Sucking in another drag from his cigarette, he let it sit for a moment before expelling the cloud in a great gust, flicking aside the half burned butt with a facetious outbreath.

"H-How…" The man whispered hoarsely, shoulders slumped in despair, the spirited defiance he clung to so fiercely vanishing starkly in the face of the mandalorian's words. "How do you know?"

"A padawan, but not yours… no, we both know what happened to your padawan, Genera Kota." The bounty hunter nodded slowly, but there was no malice in his words or tone, even as he spoke over Kota's question. "Damn shame that, never did approve of the clone army. If the republic wanted to keep their territories so bad they should have grown some _gett'se _and done the damn job themselves." He shrugged. "Good soldiers though, trained by real warriors, real _verda_. It's hardly a surprise the seps lost. Real blood and flesh," he thumped his breastplate, "real _loras_, will always be better than machines."

"Don't you agree… General?"

The answer Lok received was as much as he expected, but no less satisfying. It was an answer, of course, that he had been searching for. It was always so amusing, riling up these Jedi, seeking what lurked underneath their false façade of pleasantry.

The mandalorian bounty hunter grunted heavily as the table suddenly thrust itself forward, slamming dead center into his breastplate. The impact was hard and fast, but absorbed mostly by the thickness of his armor and its integrated shock absorbers. Had he been wearing anything else than genuine _beskar'gam_, straight from the forges on Mandalore, then his ribs would have been unceremoniously shattered and driven into his own insides. Seeing as he wasn't wearing the flimsy papier-mâché arts and craft project issued to the average storm trooper, the table, hurtling at the rough equivalent of a drunk rodian on a speeder bike, forced little more than a rush of air from his lungs.

Lok took the blow in stride, letting it push him firmly into his seat as the bench underneath him skidded several feet backwards. Then, as the leather laminate pew tilted, he threw his weight back and kicked his foot up, the tip of his boot sending the slab of durasteel upwards. The table spun vertically, a loud _snap-hiss_ cut through the air, and then a bright green blade divided the upturned table into two equal halves.

"You will not have the child!" Rahm roared definitely, throwing the separated halves of the table across the cantina with a single gesture. The two semicircular wedges skipped across the floor, scattering the handful of patrons that had not yet already fled.

There was no answering reply forthcoming from Lok, who had taken the brief moment of inaction on Kota's behalf to complete his backwards roll and swing himself onto his feet, grasping the hilt of the blade sheathed at his waist. He drew the sword as Kota leaped forward with a cry of rage, the sharp metallic hiss of the weapon leaving its scabbard distorting into a deep _thrum _as metal and shaped energy clashed.

Kota grunted, eyes widening briefly with surprise, and leaned back with a heavy twist of his shoulder, barely avoiding the heavy iron saber that swung for his neck. Not easily deterred, the mandalorian stepped into Rahm's guard and rotated his wrist, re-angling his swing and forcing the Jedi to slap it aside with his lightsaber to prevent the crushing mass of the machete from being plunged into his stomach.

And then an armored fist smashed into his face.

The Jedi gasped as he reeled back in shock, head throbbing from the thunderous impact of cold steel on his cheekbone. The world spun madly and he felt his teeth rattle in his skull as his mind struggled to gather itself. But he was not given a moment of reprieve. The force screamed a warning and he brought his weapon up in a guard that caught the descending weight of the mandalorian's sword, moments from cleaving him from shoulder to waist. Then, the flat of a boot slammed into his torso with the force of a hyperdrive.

General Rahm Kota, Jedi Master and survivor of the Great Purge, expert strategist and master of the Niman lightsaber form, wheezed through battered lungs. The mandalorian's assault was relentless, an inexorable rush of conducted aggression the likes Kota had never faced in battle before. But that was a symptom to a larger problem. The force acted strange around him, dulled, distorted, as if it were being pulled and twisted by unseen hands. It did not come easily to him when called, and even its warnings were delayed… shadowed.

The blow from the mandalorian's boot knocked him off his feet and sent him hurtling across the cantina, plowing through tables and stopped only by the pitiless firmament of the opposite wall. Kota felt something in his chest crack and fell forward, choking on bile that fought to erupt. Meanwhile, the bounty hunter approached at a sedate pace, appearing to offer him time to recuperate.

"Come, _Jetii_…" He spoke with a soft, seemingly conspiratorial smile, a smile that was not reflected by the harsh glower of his eyes.

"Let us see whose resolve is stronger."

Rahm clung to his tenacity, summoning what will and strength he had left after years of being hunted by the Empire, years spent less than a single step ahead, hundreds of close calls and the sacrifices made by old friends. He could not let it end here, in some dirty, filth stained cantina buried in the soiled depths of Nar Shadda.

He deepened his breath, calmed his rising passions, and embraced the force.

"I will not end here, mandalorian. I cannot." He could not afford to die here, if he did, so would the Jedi Order. He would not let an ageless dynasty perish, not at least at fault of his own.

Kota looked into the fiery eyes of his opponent, noting with some surprise, the pale glimmer of… understanding therein. He noted as well, that the man was content to wait, and did not leap at the opportunity to strike him down at his weakest.

"For all the harshness of my words, I understand your plight, _Jetii." _The mandalorian spoke slowly, a hint of emotion in his tone that was neither wrathful nor arrogant, but dubious nonetheless. "Your goal is noble. Know that I will at least take no pleasure in its opposition, if not in the thrill of battle. For that," he smiled somewhat apologetically, shifting his feet and reaffirming his stance, saber held at the ready, the heavy iron dark and imposing. "You'll just have to indulge me."

Matching the mandalorian's vicious leer with a determined grimace, Kota marshaled as much cooperation out of the force as he could beseech, and thrust a palm out, lifting the bounty hunter off his feet and sending him flying into the cantina wall. The heavily armored warrior impacted hard, shattering the permacrete as he hurtled through the pulverized debris out into the street. He heard the second crash, as the hunter's body hit and broke through the wall of the building next door.

Yet Kota knew that had purchased him only moments, and was already scrambling to the back room as fast as he could, heart thundering and lungs heaving, not from exertion, but from fear and concern he could not tame. Fear not for himself, but the child in his care.

Kota leaped over the bar and ran through the back, arriving at the maintenance hub at the end of the hall. He was not gentle as he threw the door open. Inside, a young bothan sat by the AC unit as it hummed and sputtered to itself, dressed in ragged robes and clutching his arms to his knees. The young male's head whipped up at the sound of the Jedi Master throwing the door open, eyes wide with fear as his body shivered.

"M-Master Kota…" He stuttered timidly, the Jedi Master effortlessly able to sense the youngling's fear and confusion in the force, though in truth one good look was equally as informative.

"Cam!" Kota shouted as he ducked inside, hastily gathering the young bothan's meager possessions. "We need to go. Now." He explained rather poorly as he shoved the loose collection of hygiene tools and spare parts into a pack that he thrust into the boy's trembling paws.

The young male's reaction was admirable, and a testament to how long they'd been forced to endure this nightmare, as he quickly grabbed the satchel and slung it on his shoulder, already up on his feet and ready to follow, despite the anxiety that so clearly wracked his poor system.

"The E-Empire?" The bothan asked quietly, his voice strangled by the dread he fought to control.

"Worse." Kota answered tersely, grabbing Cam gently by the shoulder to lead him out the back. The situation was dour, but he'd planned for this eventuality. There was a speeder parked in a locked garage a few streets down, protected by a gang he'd hired with what little credits they had left and a little persuasion with the force. From there they'd be able to make it to the nearby space port and hop on a freighter heading to Corellia. They'd be able to hide for a while, long enough hopefully, to meet with his local contacts and muster the support he needed to fight back against the Empire. He had no expectations to win, but it would keep them distracted, keep Cam safe.

There were many sympathetic to the plight of the Jedi on Corellia, and many more that were waiting for the chance to strike even with the Empire. His militia had been scattered after the war, dispersed to hide away from the searching tendrils of this new Sith Empire. He'd hoped to keep it that way, keep those good men and women from being dragged into a conflict that was not their own. The Jedi fell to their own hubris, and did not want to see them killed for his Order's mistakes. The Empire was vast and powerful, a military regime with hordes of warriors and fleets of warships. But he knew now, as he hurried Cam out the back and into the street, that there was no other way to survive than to fight back.

He could run from Imperial investigators till his hair turned white. Their bureaucracy was bloated and corrupt. That was, unfortunately, their only exploitable weakness. Imperials were one thing, easily avoided, but to be pursued by a bounty hunter, a mandalorian, whose culture once was notorious for their detestation for Jedi and had been well known for killing them, that was a challenge of a different caliber.

"W-Where are we going to g-go now, Master Kota?" Cam's worried question, spoken in a timorous stammer, dispersed his concerned musing, and he reaffirmed his comforting grasp on the young bothan's shoulder.

"Corellia." He answered, leading the youngling down another of the unremarkable alleys that slithered through Nar Shadda's underbelly like a serpentine labyrinth. Kota ignored the destitute sentients that huddled against the dirtied walls, away from the chilling night wind that blew down from the spires above. He had no time for sympathy, and the weeks they'd spent down here, witnessing firsthand what these impoverished creatures could do to themselves and others, had deadened his compassion for them. He possessed neither the time nor inclination to help addicts and criminals.

"I have a few contacts there that can help us." It was a dangerous plan, attempting to hide on a planet holding one of the Empire's largest shipyards. Their presence on the planet would be heavy. Inversely, the security would certainly be lax. There was often merit in hiding where the enemy would not suspect, regardless of the risk imposed.

He had plans drawn for this moment, plans written in the early period of the Empire's rise to power and solidified over the years of their remorseless reign. He had ships stricken from the shipyard records, plenty of disillusioned corellians to get them running, some of the best pilots and crew in the galaxy. He had his militia, hardened by the clones wars and ready to take the fight to this new corrupt regime. There were places not in imperial navigational charts, small moons and asteroid habitats, places they could gather and plan. There might not be a real chance to defeat the Empire, but he could keep them busy long enough for the real movement to gain traction.

All he had to do was make sure he and Cam lived long enough to see it happen.

And that was proving even more difficult than he first anticipated.

The force, as it often manifested itself, was his first inclination that something was wrong. He could feel the unease creeping upon his thoughts, an air of caution that made him stop just before leaving the alley across from the garage, a staying hand placed on Cam's frail chest. The child looked up questioningly to the master, but as usual, remained wise enough to not speak. But his presence in the force, and his own body betrayed him. He could sense the boy's unease, a constant emotion that rose to greater heights now than they had been earlier. His fur bristled with primal instinct, a display designed to enlarge his appearance, now seeking to ward off an unseen predator.

"M-Master…" Cam whispered uncertainly. The young bothan no doubt could feel some of what Kota could. Though his connection to the force was new and still in its infancy, even a sentient with the barest link could sense inherently that something was not quite right.

Kota had no response forthcoming to the child, his attention instead intent on searching for the gang he had paid to guard their hidden speeder. He saw no sign of the burly human and his mixed group of weequay and gamorians. The street was quiet, and deserted, and that in itself was foreboding.

Even down below the skyrises there was always movement on the streets.

"Come." He ushered quietly, his voice lowered, and though he would not notice, colored by dread. The Jedi Master took hold of the boy's quivering paw and made to turn. "We'll need to find another way to the spaceport." Kota muttered softly, already constructing another plan to get them off this force forsaken moon.

"I am afraid there are no other ways, General Kota."

The Jedi master heard the voice, recognized it from the cantina, and felt the muted flicker of hope begin to die. He completed his turn, pushing Cam behind him in what was probably a futile display, and looked to the imposing figure of the mandalorian looming in the mouth of the alleyway.

There was no expression upon the faceless reflection of his helmet, the bold, black mirrored sheen of the visor teasing unpleasant memories of the war and the clone army that had so efficiently eradicated his kind. A gust of wind brushed against the edges of the warrior's cloak, a robe of glittering scales that gleamed like obsidian in the dim light of yellowed street lamps, disguising much of the thick armor plating that was undoubtedly made of mandalorian iron, able to turn away even the most determined of lightsaber strokes.

"This is the end of the line." The bounty hunter drew his blade, the weapon three feet in length, a single edge sword that was more than an inch at its thickest point and sporting an edge sharpened to a reflective shine. Like before, there was no malice in his voice, no loathing or hatred. If anything he seemed eager, more at the prospect of crossing blades, than of any desire to kill.

Kota, whose heart had been thundering since the moment the mandalorian stepped into the cantina, took a deep breath. The deafening staccato of his heartbeat stilled, and a familiar calmness fell upon his roiling emotions. The ache in his bones, present since the moment he'd felt the force cry in agony on the last day of the war, was soothed as if by a gentle, unseen hand.

There was a whisper in his thoughts, and he knew what was to transpire. He knew what needed to be done.

"Promise me, mandalorian." He spoke with a hardening resolve as he reached into his robe and pulled out the silver hilt of his weapon. "Promise me they will not have the boy."

"Master Kota?" The padawan murmured uncertainly, a hint of panic in the frantic flicker of his eyes. The boys paw clenched in a tight fist around the hem of the Jedi Master's robe, a grip that stiffened as he struggled to understand the conversation between the Jedi and the mandalorian.

"The contract said nothing of a padawan." The bounty hunter shrugged unconcernedly. "There would be no credits in it for me. The boy will be safe from me. But without a master, I cannot guarantee for how long."

The mandalorian's words were dismissive and callous, but through the eyes of the force…

Kota sighed in relief and turned, kneeling beside the bewildered child.

"Master Kota we can run!" The young bothan bobbed his muzzle vigorously, tugging beckoningly at the hem of his robe. "That's what you said, remember? You said we keep running, no matter what! We can still make it to the spaceport! We can get to Corellia! I can run fast, I promise!"

"Camath…" Kota shook his head wryly, placing a hand gently on the youngling's cheek, brushing away the wetness as he smiled. "There comes a time, my boy, when you cannot run anymore."

"F-Fine." He grumbled stubbornly. "Then we take him, together."

Kota looked down at the diminutive bothan, at his childish determination, and for a moment the Jedi Master swore it was the ghost of his old padawan alive again. He chuckled at the thought, and took comfort in the warmth he felt from the boy through the force, even as he was about to break the little bothan's heart.

"I'm sorry Cam, but this is a road you cannot follow. This is something I must do alone. Remember, on Raxus, we prepared for something like this. You know what to do."

"No I don't. I can't go alone. Not again. Please…" The child tackled into his chest, sobbing as he buried his muzzle into the voluminous fabric of his robes. Master Kota, I-I'm scared."

It was difficult, more than it should be for a Jedi. Kota could feel his own eyes moisten as he enveloped the padawan in his arms and held him close. And in this moment he took solace in the code. "Come on Cam." He grabbed the bothan's shoulders and pulled him back far enough to look in the eye. "Say it with me. There is no emotion."

"There is peace." The boy recited with a muffled sniffle.

"There is no ignorance." "There is knowledge."

"There is no passion." "There is serenity."

"There is no chaos." "There is harmony."

"There is no death." "There is the force."

"Good." Kota smiled. "Remember that, if you remember anything that I have ever taught you, remember that. Now…" He pushed Camath away with a gentle shove. "Go, and promise me you won't look back, no matter what."

"B-But…."

"Promise me, Camath!"

"I… I promise, Master."

Kota carried his smile, carried his confidence, till the moment he lost sight of Camath. Once gone, he took a moment to prepare for the end. The force was like a soothing balm, a comforting presence that whispered to him that he had made the right choice. It helped ease the weight on his shoulders and gave him the strength he needed to stand up and turn to face his foe.

The mandalorian remained as he was, standing in the mouth of the alley, sword drawn but not ready to strike. And upon meeting the faceless stare of the bounty hunter's helmet, the warrior inclined his head once, respectfully. "The boy will be fine, Rahm. On that you have my word. This once I will make sure the imperials won't get their hands on him. After this, however, all's fair."

Armor plates shifted with a rhythmic clatter as the mandalorian rolled his shoulders in a relaxed shrug. "Of course if you kill me you won't have to worry about that."

"Of course." Kota agreed, clear enough of mind to be somewhat amused by the warrior's cavalier attitude as he activated his lightsaber and brought it up in a guard. Limited experience with this man had given him the impression that he could not be matched in aggression. But he was not going to give up just yet, there was more than one way to skin a rancor.

"Well then," the mandalorian popped his neck with a quick twist and advanced forward with a stride that was undeterred at the prospect of meeting a Jedi Master in combat.

"Let's be about this."


	2. Lightsabers and Cat Tails

Nar Shadda sucked.

Of course, there was a million different ways to describe its utter suckitude, each more intimately detailed then the last. The days were hot and muggy, broken only by the bitter fury of acid rain and darkened by the occasional storm front of smog clouds. The nights were cold and hostile, traveled by the dirtiest beings imaginable. The only thing more uninviting then the refuse strewn streets was the denizens that walked them. It could be said, for the sake of abbreviation and to save on effervescent metaphors that could be better put elsewhere, that of all the places Miyu had ever visited, Nar Shadda was, by several parsecs, the absolute worst.

And that was including the time she made a short stop on Venom. That said something, she figured. If a penal colony with poisoned air and hardened criminals seemed like a decent time share opportunity when used to compare, then yeah… there was definitely a problem somewhere.

And that somewhere was Nar Shadda.

The shithole…

Just to reiterate, in case the point had not been hammered enough.

So it was, she wondered quietly to herself as she trudged through the piles of rusted scrap, cast away plastics and discarded foodstuffs - each labored breath taxing the rebreather she had taken with her to dull the edge of the heavy pollution down in the undercity - how exactly it was that she had come to this. There had been a time, once several lifetimes ago it seemed, way back in the good ol glory days, when her name had actually _meant_ something. She had been known throughout her home sector, celebrated, adored, and perhaps even worshipped by a few individuals who took the whole celebrity thing an itty bit too far.

Miyu Lynx had been a name spoken in toast and uttered by the mouths of the influential. She'd attended balls, soirees, been the special guest of concerts and festivals, even did a short stint as a public speaker for private schools. That'd been some wild times back then, good times, times that only brought bad memories when she thought about them. So she didn't, crushing the half formed recollections with a metaphorical fist of righteous mental fortitude.

Her situation now wasn't all that bad, sure out here in the wide ol galaxy her name wasn't worth the flowery penmanship of which it had once been associated, and she was pretty sure she had kicked eight separate assholes in the balls since she hitched a ride to this planet… and maybe it was a just a _little_ insulting to be relegated to running down bail jumpers and debt dodgers after kicking serious ass in the Second Lylat War. But she hadn't come here looking for an easy ride.

She'd left her sector for a clean start, a fresh slate. And just like any FNG, she had to make her beginnings at the bottom of the barrel, shoveling the shit alongside the rest of the noobs and younger upstarts still wet behind the ears and eager to make it big. Miyu considered herself luckier than most, not even in her mid-twenties and she'd already mellowed out, avoiding the flippant immaturity that pissed off the older and more experienced trackers. That had made her start here considerably less difficult, and while she certainly hadn't made any friends with the other trackers, she hadn't made any enemies either. And that, she reasoned, was far more important.

Finishing the job was of course important as well.

With that thought in mind, she decided to brood on her misfortune latter. The sooner she finished snatching the dumb zabrak who thought he could take out a high interest loan and not pay it back, the sooner she could trudge into her shitty little apartment and forget about the rest of her even shittier day. She hoped he thought it was worth it, because she sure as hell was not in the mood to have it out with anyone today. If they tried, they'd probably not live to regret it.

She was pretty sure that bringing him back alive was optional, and if not… well worse mistakes have been made in this career.

The lynx brushed a thumb down the length of her short barreled blaster, wiping away the thin film of sticky liquid that people called rain down here in the deep asshole of the asshole moon. The one regret she still had about leaving her old life behind, was that she had left it _all _behind, her cool ass guns, her badass ship, and her kickass penthouse. She'd traded all her cool ass stuff, for dumbass stuff. Now, she hiked around with an Empire surplus E-11 and some cheap as hell flack armor, good enough to take a few shots from a thug's slug thrower, and maybe blunt any fancy knifework. But it would be like walking naked in to an honest to gods firefight, The blaster was alright she supposed, after all if the Empire was good for anything, it was making things that were good at killing.

She wasn't much a fan of the Empire, personally. They kinda sucked and they sure as shit hated anything that wasn't a furless primate, but as long as they didn't dick her over she wasn't feeling much like complaining, certainly not enough to tag along with some idiotic freedom fighters thinking they had a chance in hell. She'd had her fill of small groups tackling larger organizations.

No thanks, she was perfectly fine with beating up some dumb assholes who made poor financial decisions. Life out here had given her a sense of frugality, which only served to piss her off when she had to track down some mindless meat sacks that didn't have two brain cells to rub together. Like right now, she mused, her tracking fob beeping louder and flashing almost constantly as she pointed it at the building across the street. She was quite ready to kick his door down, rough him up more than was necessary as stated by the contract, and then call in the cleanup crew.

Of course she should have known that her day was not going to be a simple as that. Her luck had been holding out too well recently, too many easy jobs, and it seemed as if the cosmic wheel of fate was about to spin her pointer into double bonus jackpot.

And not the good kind of jackpot.

Miyu started crossing the street, a slight smirk curling the corner of her muzzle as she imagined what the zabrak's head would look like after she tattooed the bottom of her size nine boot across his stupid face.

And that's when the kid slammed into her chest.

Her stride faltered and she stumbled as a hundred-and-ten pound weight wrapped in fur connected solidly with her body. Yet, with the grace afforded to her feline lineage, she was easily able to regain her balance, catching the scruff of the little urchin's neck before he ate shit on the floor, and considering the things lying around here, it could very well be literal. Her paw held tight to the back of his neck as she yanked him upwards in a one-pawed grip to keep him from tumbling over. The other paw she sent feeling down her clothes, searching pockets and pouches for any sign of theft.

Just because she wasn't a native here didn't mean she was a fucking tourist. She hadn't been born yesterday.

Satisfied after the brief pat down that nothing had been purloined by grubby paws, she shifted her attention to the ragged youth dangling from her hand. The kid squirmed like a pit viper, writhing and flailing, muttering very impolite and unflatteringly venomous observations about her character in crude huttese. Honestly she was rather offended.

So she shook him.

The young being, probably some kind of canine by the looks of him, found it pretty hard to babble as he was thrashed around like a sock in a laundry machine, and eventually he was battered into a sullen, much politer mutter.

"There…" Miyu huffed smugly as she released her grasp, letting the kid drop roughly to the ground. "Feeling better now, shortstop?"

The child glared up at her from the ground as he wiped a paw across his eyes, drawing her attention to the realization that he just been crying pretty hard a few moments ago. Feeling something pull deep… _deep_ inside herself, the spotted lynx sighed and crouched, tucking an arm under the canine's shoulder and hoisting him back onto his feet. She stepped in close, ignoring his distrustful, halfway askance stare, to try and bring some sense of order to the disheveled state of his clothes.

"Sorry kiddo, that wasn't very cool of me." She murmured apologetically.

The boy remained silent, seemingly content to let her brush off the grime and straighten out the wrinkles as he stared bemusedly at her with reddened eyes that glistened with the shadow of childlike distress. The process took a few minutes, after which she took a half step back to admire her work, a lopsided grin tugging at the corner of her muzzle. Satisfied, she thumped him lightly on the shoulder with a fist. "Alright, consider that my apology for manhandling ya. You can't really trust anything down here." She drawled idly, before a thought brought a twist of consternation across her brow, blowing across her concentration like an errant wind.

Miyu glanced left and right to either side of the street.

It was empty.

She frowned, its shape taking a rather bewildered form as she looked back to the diminutive child in front of her, who had just been running like a rabid nexu had been hot on his heels. He'd also been crying, and not in the, _my mom wouldn't buy my favorite toy _kind of way, but more like _my life is in actual danger and I need help_.

Then she remembered where she was.

Her bemused thoughts took shape in a single sentence, colored heavily by confusion and disbelief.

"Where in the nine Corellian Hells are your parents, kid?"

And that's when he exploded into tears.

XX-XX-XX

Four minutes passed in which she was made subject to an absolute flood of information, the bafflingly chaotic kind that only a kid on the verge of a panic attack could ever really achieve. She did her best to understand at least some of it, she really did. But it was hard to make out coherent words, let alone complete sentences out of a mouth that was trying and failing to decide whether it wanted to wail or cry.

"So…" She ventured carefully after the tide had subsided, eyeing the kid with a new found sense of caution. "You're saying your dad was attacked by a… big bad man?"

"Y-Yeah…" He sniffled in a way that was for sure definitely not adorable.

Definitely…

The young canine looked up to her, eyes wide and hopeful, tears still half formed and a dribble of snot leaking from one nostril. He cast quite the pitiable sight in the disgusting back alleys of Nar Shadda, dirtied and unkempt, sniveling, with just the slight quiver of a lower lip.

"C-Can you h-help me save my p-papa?"

Damn…

That shit should be illegal.

Miyu glanced at her tracking fob, and then to the tenement apartment in front of her, completing her searching gaze on the little sniveling dog child. She glanced back at her fob, then the rundown apartment complex, and finally the child.

She groaned, loudly, rubbing a paw across her muzzle, even as the child squealed happily. "Alright… alright… I'll take a _look _at what's going on. But if your dad started it, he's one his own."

The little canine nodded excitedly as he reached out and grabbed her paw. "That's alright, my dad never starts anything."

Miyu wondered at how she had gotten roped into a dad saving errand here of all places. There was of course the possibility that the kid was lying, currently leading her by the paw to an even darker street to be set upon by a pack of thugs and vagrants. She had considered it of course. She wasn't retarded. Nor did she take much stock in that cats have nine lives myth. Instead Miyu liked to believe that she was an excellent judge of character.

Sure, a lot of people said that, some more often than not walking into the very situations as she described. But so far she was on a pretty lengthy win streak, discounting that little kerfuffle over on Zoness. Really though, who the hell would have guessed that the coffee shop barista was packing a bomb vest?

No one.

Not a damn soul that's who.

So yeah… didn't count.

"Your dad a smart guy?" Miyu decided to turn her attention to the situation at paw, asking her question on the basis that if she was going to potentially kick the shit out of a guy trying to kick the shit out of another guy, she'd at least get some kind of leg up on how this all happened.

"The smartest!" The little pup exclaimed in answer to her question, with the unshakable conviction of every child that believed their parent was infallible. Once upon a time she'd been the very same. At least before reality set in and she realized her dad was actually a super douche.

Miyu made a dismissive noise with her nose.

"Your dad have a lot of credits?" She wondered hopefully.

"Nope!" The boy quipped lightly, his innocent laugh dulling her disappointment only slightly.

"Great… smart but broke. Aren't they all..." She mused quietly to herself, subconsciously letting her blaster hang on its sling as she brushed a paw across her nearly barren wallet. Maybe if she beat the other guy senseless she could lift his wallet. Fairs fair after all. If you act the asshole, you get the asshole treatment. She was a little light on funds at the moment, thanks to the exorbitant prices of even everyday items. You knew it was a bad place to live when a carton of milk had the capability of breaking your bank.

Not that they had banks on Nar Shadda.

Just another reason the place sucked, really.

"We almost there?" Thoughts of her personal economic downturn reminded her of her whole reason for heading down into the slums in the first place. So the sooner she finished her good deed for the day, the sooner she could go back to collecting her mark and getting enough credits to make it through the rest of the month, maybe even squirrel away a few for when she eventually gathered enough capital to take herself off this shitty moon.

She'd heard that Dathomir was nice this time of year.

Well… not really. But it was probably better than here, and far enough away from the core worlds that she wasn't likely to cross paths with xenophobic imperials. Nar Shadda had simply been the closest place with connections to The Guild with the authority to induct new members, but that certainly did not mean she had any intention of staying here. Honestly she should have paid more attention to the holonet wiki article before she chartered her trip.

This was definitely in her overall top three worst decisions.

"Almost!" The canine piped up, his high pitched howl overshadowing her wandering attention. Going on two months and here she was, following after a dirty kid in the slums to save his dad that probably did something to deserve whatever misfortune was occurring. All she really knew, was that if she found two drunks squabbling with each other, _one _of them would be paying out for wasting her time.

Either way she wouldn't have to wait much longer. She was starting to be able to hear the scuffle in the distance. Her hearing was probably better than the little canine; owing to the simple fact cats were just inherently better like that. And she was even more grateful for that than usual, since the sounds she was picking up definitely did not belong to the ham-fisted scrabbling of two alcoholics fighting over a spilled beer.

There was a deep thrumming reverberation eerily reminiscent of a sound she'd only heard a handful of times in her life, and when it lurched abruptly, with a static pop as the device slammed into something hard and metallic, Miyu instinctively tucked her ears back.

"Uh… kid…" She murmured warily, reaching out to grab his shoulder and stop him from getting any nearer. Her other paw reached down and grabbed tight to her blaster.

He looked back at her questioningly, seemingly unconcerned, and opened his mouth.

But before he could utter a single word there was a loud, percussive roar as something exploded and she watched as a figure tumbled out of the alley across the street, the trim of their cloak smoking as they rolled rather acrobatically into an upright posture.

There were several things she could have focused on in that moment of dismayed realization. She could have noticed as the little canine leaped forward, shouting at the top of his lungs for his _Master_. She could have remarked on the observation that the person he was running towards was a human male and certainly not another canine. And there was of course the noticeable trend in their unusual fashion sense.

But those were merely subsidiary annotations to the greater possessor of her attention, being of course, the glowing green blade of the fucking _lightsaber_ the human was holding. Each piece of the puzzle was increasingly transparent, and yet, in her shock it took the feline several moments to assemble the picture of it in her mind's eye.

And when the realization finally struck…

It hit… _hard_.

That was a fucking _Jedi, _and not any Jedi, but a full blown master judging by the exclamation of the little kid.

And that little shit!

He had duped her!

It was as she came to this thought, that the next shocking development strode out of the shadow of the alley and into the dim light of the street, and Miyu realized the severity of the unexpected plot she had unwittingly involved herself in.

She couldn't tell what species the male was, not underneath a mountain of armor like that. But the lynx cared a whole lot less about the race, and more so about the sword he held in his right hand, and the mean looking pistol in his left. She could also tell that he was definitely not a friend of the Jedi, and probably now herself as well by unfortunate association.

"Cam!" The Jedi Master exclaimed in panicked disbelief, revealing the name of the little turd that had screwed her, as well as pointing out just how unhappy he was to see the kid. And judging by the heated battle she had stumbled upon, it was no surprise why.

"Master Kota it's okay. I brought help!" The little traitor shouted excitedly.

_No need to point me out kid. Just keep em distracted, give me a second to just slink out of he- crap. _

_He's pointing me out. _

_Literally._

The dumb pup jabbed a furry finger at her, almost accusatory, drawing both the attention of the Jedi Master and the armored being whose very presence screamed _don't fuck with me_. Suddenly finding herself imparted with the full undivided attention of both parties, her social aptitude floundered.

Badly…

"Uh… hello?" She hedged awkwardly; paw half raised in a lukewarm greeting.

There was an uncomfortable silence as both the Jedi Master and his adversary stared at her, one in disbelief and the other unreadable with that strange helmet. And then the guy in armor pointed the blaster pistol in her direction and things just kind of escalated from there.

Despite the unwelcome surprise foisted upon her, she _was_ a professional. Quick to realize that diplomacy would definitely not be an option here, the lynx sprinted forward paw outstretched. And as the blaster bolts started flying she snatched the kid by the arm and threw him to the ground before he could be cut down by the deadly accurate fire.

Such altruism was not without reward, although she doubted you could count getting hit as any kind of reasonable incentive for good deeds. The shot landed hard, impacting her shoulder with enough force for to spin her on her heels. The flimsy flack vest cracked, as expected really, and she felt a burning pain just to the left of her collar bone. The only surprise here really, was in how powerful the bolt was. Whoever the guy might have been, he was packing some serious heat.

Not wanting to get shot a second time, she turned her fall into a dive. Hitting the ground shoulder first, she tucked her limbs in tight and came out the roll blaster ready. She fired a half dozen rounds in the armored guy's direction, less to with the intent to hit and more to keep him from gunning her down in the street.

Unfortunately whatever armor he was wearing seemed to find her return fire utterly underwhelming and Miyu felt her stomach drop as the blaster bolts ricocheted off his breastplate and scattered to the winds. Thankfully before he could fire again, and probably land a blow that was not in a place she could shrug off, the Jedi threw himself back in to the fray.

Then, she was witness to some incredible action, the kinda shit you usually had to pay top dollar to see on stage or in holovids. It was also the first time in her life she had seen two people who really wanted to kill each other.

With swords…

So… kinda cool… and kinda not. Either way, she hadn't been shot yet, at least not for a second time, and it looked like the armor guy was too busy with the Jedi to bother to consider her. Miyu felt like she should have been insulted, but honestly, it was kinda of her first decent break since this whole thing started. And right now she was just trying to not get killed, or even more involved than she already was.

The kid though, seemed dead-set on making that impossible for her.

"Master!" The small canine shouted worriedly as he reached into his cloak, revealing the silver hilt of _another_ lightsaber.

Miyu could only sigh as she leaped forward and clubbed him somewhat roughly across the back of the head. It wasn't a hard blow, just enough really to knock the hilt out of his hand before he turned it on and actually got them both in trouble she couldn't avoid.

Right now the Jedi and the crazy guy were really going at it, and she was pretty sure the Jedi didn't want the kid to get in the way. She was also pretty sure that the kid wouldn't last a second against a guy who could one-on-one a Jedi Master and seem to be kicking ass. She wasn't even trying to pick sides here. She just didn't want to see the kid get killed for being dumb.

"That ain't gonna help anybody, kiddo." She admonished the child as he rubbed his head tenderly. "I don't think your Master would be very happy with you if you went and got yourself killed."

The sullen glare she received in kind went unnoticed, as the feline was far more interested in her front row seat to a battle nearly as old as time, though she wasn't on the take to know it. Back in Lylat, at some of the festivals she'd sponsored had been themed pre-industrialization, back in the hay days when you had to stab and club people you didn't like. As such there had been some pretty cool choreographed sword fights between entertainers in period accurate armor. This was kind of like that, except you known, not fake, and they clearly weren't using dulled blades and prop equipment.

There was a ferocity and rhythm in the clash of their weapons that seemed almost… supernatural, a whirling maelstrom of metal and contained energy replicate-able only by those trained from birth to wield, each strike popping like miniature fireworks at every point of contact. The Jedi's cadence was elegant, graceful sweeping arcs and powerful strikes hammered with precision and harmonious poise. It seemed less intended for combat and more as a flowing form of expressionism.

Personally she thought it was a little pretentious.

The guy in armor though, he was just plain brutal.

He hammered at the Jedi's defense with the collective elegance of an avalanche, ruthless, heavy handed blows with a blade that held similarity to a cleaver, equipped to cut bone or through underbrush at a moment's notice. There was no wasted motion or airy flips and rolls, just a steady inexorable advance, supported by an unrelenting flurry of crushing assaults. When the Jedi created distance, he reined the force user in with carefully direct shots from his blaster. And when the Master tried to get close, he was beaten back with an armored fist or devastating knee strike.

Unsurprisingly, after being manhandled so egregiously and with such blatant contempt, the Jedi's remarkable store of patience finally seemed to snap.

The human bellowed a wordless shout as he vaulted in to the air, lightsaber outstretched above his head and ready to descend in a smooth arc aimed for the armored warrior's neck. The counter he received was as dismissive as it was alarming. The bounty hunter threw his arm up, spewing a gout of roaring flame that erupted from his vambrace.

Faced with a blistering inferno, the Jedi was forced to change direction, spiraling to the side with his saber outstretched. There was a loud crackling noise, like a backfiring generator moments before an electrical fire as the blade struck home. Miyu had heard about what lightsabers could do to a person, certainly nothing she ever wanted anywhere near her. And yet, to her continued surprise, there was no shout of pain or the sound of an arm hitting the ground.

There was, however, a brief flash of pyrotechnics as sparks erupted from the point of contact, the blade literally _skidding _across the metal of the crazy Jedi hunter's upper arm.

Yeah… that was a real_ oh shit_ moment.

That, of course, and the gunmetal form of an imperial patrol gunship swooping down from above, its sudden arrival interceding unwelcomingly. The air, once resounding with the clash of blades, was now deafened by the harsh wine of turbine engines as the transport descended rapidly, jostling its occupants as they clung to hand-grips hanging from the interior.

Interestingly enough, _no one_ seemed happy to see them.

The Jedi Master's grim expression only darkened further and the armored man made the first noise she had ever heard him make, a frustrated snarl that would have been more at home in the throat of a mildly disgruntled rancor. His weapon twisted, moments from delivering a telling blow, one he had likely spent the entire duel orchestrating, and he sheathed it with a harried impatience. One did not need to know the man intimately to tell that the arrival of imperil forces was an occasion he deemed entirely disagreeable.

Miyu herself was cursing anything and everything as she scrambled over to the kid and grabbed him by the arm, hoping maybe to slip away before they were spotted. This was really screwing with her plan to avoid imperial authority. It was, in fact, the exact _opposite_ of what she wanted.

Things were made worse when the gunship peeled in low, nearly skirting the duracrete as it disgorged several squads of xenophobic soldiers in familiar, anxiety inducing white armor. Even back home out at the edge of galactic space the dread visage of imperial stormtroopers was a familiar and unwelcome sight.

"THIS IS NARSEC, SUBMIT TO IMPERIAL AUTHORITY!"

Miyu's ears flattened and she could _feel_ the deafening demand in her bones as it was shouted from the gunship's loudspeaker, her vision blinded by the beams of piercing light issued from the ship's spotlights. In moments the street was swarming with stormtroopers, hard as they were to see with the unreasonable brightness being projected directly into her eyes. More condemning than that, her recuperating ears could vaguely pinpoint the far off whine of more approaching transports, no doubt full to bursting with fanatical imperial soldiers.

Something slammed hard into her side, a plastoid shoulderplate by her best painful guess, and that jarring pain was accompanied by a hollow tube of steel pressed against the nape of her neck. The hiss that eased out of her throat, while intended to be threatening, probably sounded more like the airless mewl of a kitten to the imperial stormtrooper with his knee crushing her spine.

Definitely not one of her shining moments.

On a somewhat pleasant note, her neck was contorted, rather painfully, in such a way that she could still see most of what was going on as the stormtrooper and his plus one secured her and the child, who by the grace of the gods had enough presence of mind to hide away his toy.

Though the feline wondered if you could still schedule to see a chiropractor behind the bars of an imperial prison cell, probably not she hazarded. Weird thought to have, but then the whole day was turning out to be a pretty weird. Just that morning she'd been sitting at the cantina waiting for work, now here she was, in the aftermath of a tussle between a bounty hunter and a bloody Jedi, trussed up like a seasonal ham by imperial security forces.

Certainly not how she saw the day going.

Seriously.

Nar Shadda.

Not even once.

Meanwhile the Jedi Master had seemingly surrendered, and was surrounded by more than a dozen very nervous stormtroopers who looked like they'd rather be anywhere else than here. She could tell because not one of them seemed willing to get close enough to slap on a pair of restraints, especially not while he was wielding that green poker like he meant it.

Personally, she didn't blame them, not after watching him fly around with a laser sword. Of course, being imperial, she wouldn't have particularly minded otherwise.

The only one who seemed to have any sense of control over the situation was the crazy bounty hunter wearing that lightsaber proof armor. And he was having a _very _heated discussion with a patrol trooper sporting a fancy shoulder pad and nifty chevrons. She couldn't hear the words being exchanged but purely from observation she was certain they were not the nice kind. There were also rude gesticulations punctuating each heavily delivered sentence, and neither appeared ready to back down.

They must have been quarreling over some disagreement, maybe about the pay? She didn't know what it was about but it must have been important if he was willing to but heads with the Empire's chief enforcers.

The verbose exchange was so intense and virulent that it began to garner attention from the other stormtroopers. Blaster shifted in nervous hands and barrels began to turn and it seemed that there might be another fight on the way, one she was horribly disadvantaged to survive.

You know, being on the floor under the heel of a racist asshole and all.

And of course, that was when the Jedi decided to remind everyone that there was still a trained force user amongst them who was still very much alive and several things occurred in the time it took for the first head to turn.

All she felt at first was a powerful gust of wind that blasted through the streets with the force of a category five hurricane. Bodies in plastoid armor scattered like leaves, and very quickly she noticed the absence of the pointed weight pushing into the small of her back. Miyu took that as her chance.

"HA!" The lynx exclaimed in victory as she climbed to her feet.

This was, unsurprisingly given her current luck, a short won victory as a familiar white shape flew right at her. "Ah Fuc-" The words had barely left her mouth before the body had slammed into her at the wind force of a miniature tropical storm. The impact tore the world out from underneath her and she let out a panicked meow as she was sent flying.

She reached out with a paw, grasping at the air for anything to get a hold of before she was flung around like lint in a tumble dryer.

_What is with these laundry metaphors? _She asked herself in a transitory moment of lucidity, but the thought was quickly buried under her rising panic. Then, before she thumped along too far something warm, fuzzy, and irritatingly familiar wrapped around her reaching grasp.

"H-Hold on!" The voice of the little canine traitor sounded strained in the deafening flurry of the wind storm. And while she wondered how exactly a little ten something boy could possibly still be grounded in this whipping maelstrom, let alone keep a hold of her inside it, she decided not to question the only thing preventing her from becoming a smear across the duracrete.

Miyu had no idea how long the storm lasted, but she certainly noticed when it stopped. There was no subtle change, no steady rate of decay. It simply stopped, like at the flick of a switch. One moment she was hanging like a sheet on a line, the next she was planted face first on the ground. Thankfully, the sheer force of wind had blasted away most of the debris usually left to rot. Nevertheless, she still spluttered in disgust and rubbed her bruised nose as she hesitantly planted her feet on solid ground.

And she only let herself sigh in relief when another storm did not immediately follow after the first. Of the stormtroopers she could see no sign, though it was hard to miss the ass end of the patrol gunship thrusting out of the building across the street.

She looked down to her tiny savior, who didn't have a hair out of place on his little head, in fact he looked perfectly groomed, and a little smug to boot.

She'd have to fix that.

Miyu grinned apprehensively and ruffled his hair.

"Thanks kiddo."

He sent a surly glare her way as she mussed up his mane, but it didn't last long before turning into a smile.

"No problem!" He shouted excitedly, leaving her like trash on the side of the road as he turned about and bolted towards the robed human, who still stood in the same place he had been moments before the whole world went to hell in a hand-basket.

Whatever he did must have taken great effort, as he seemed only moments from collapsing. All the same, the grim scowl that had been pressed into his face since the second she saw him, eased into a weary grin as he watched the little canine trundle across the street.

"Master Kota!" Cam barked happily as he slammed into the Jedi Master's chest at full tilt, his happy exclamation quickly turning into a worried whine as the man's knees buckled out from under him.

"Master!"

"It's alright, Cam." He assured the child with a few comforting pats on the back. "I'm just a little worn out."

"That is… _unfortunate_."

Miyu froze and her chest constricted, as if her heart had just given up on beating. The Jedi Master's smile withered and his padawan let out a whimper.

_Holy shit…_

Duracrete groaned and cracked as the bounty hunter revealed himself, climbing out from a man shaped crater in the tenement building across the street. Fragments of rubble clattered down his frame, bouncing off armor that looked no worse the wear for having been put bodily through a solid wall of stone.

_Holy __**shit**__…_

The man made a noise reminiscent of a sigh as he brushed flecks of shattered duracrete off his armor and dusted down his cloak. "This is all so very disappointing." He twisted his neck to the side and she swore she heard the vertebra in his neck pop back into place.

"Leave it to the Empire to turn a good hunt foul."

_What does it take to kill this guy?_

The words, spoken laconic and bemused, nevertheless forced the Jedi Master to struggle into a half-conscious posture, clutching a reignited lightsaber in a bloodied hand. Exhausted to the point of delirium, he swerved the thrumming blade back and forth as if to ward off his attacker, a gesture that could only be described as pitiful. His other hand was clenched tight, white knuckled and wrapped protectively around his terrified padawan. Yet, his display of defiance a was pitiable charade that fooled no one. He was spent, that last act of the force having taken every last dreg of his remaining strength.

Even Miyu could see that.

The bounty hunter, once satisfied that his appearance was returned to some modicum of respectable, approached the kneeling pair at a leisurely pace. Forthcoming so complacently as he was, he seemed to entirely disregard the feline standing quietly far on the sideline. And after everything she had seen, that was perfectly alright with her. She'd resolved herself with being a fly on the wall, as long as it kept her alive.

The Jedi Master and his pupil were not as lucky, considering they were the sole focus of the bounty hunter's less than amiable attentions. Regardless, the Jedi's expression was grim and stoic as he stared down their impeding demise.

This stoicism ended abruptly at the whim of his adversary as the bounty hunter slapped the lightsaber aside with an open palm, ignorant of the shower of sparks that sputtered from his gauntlet and the mid of the blade. The other he extended in offer.

"Please…" The armored man intoned, rather unamused. "Enough with the _theatrics_. You impress no one."

It was safe to say that he was speechless, and so was Miyu for that matter.

"Up then, General, no warrior should ever kneel while they still possess the strength to stand." The words the bounty hunter spoke were not the kind said to a man you had just been trying to kill not minutes before. This was, also to consider, the first time Miyu had heard the armored warrior speak with such clarity, now that the ringing in her ears from the loudspeaker and the miniature hurricane had subsided. Her ears flicked curiously at his tone, the feline woman surprised to notice a deep, but pleasantly colored tenor, usually reserved for the recognition of an old friend.

Wasn't he just, she didn't know oh… _trying really, __**really**__ hard to kill him?_

The Jedi eyed the offered hand up with a dubiousness that was well warranted given preceding circumstances. Not long ago he had been fighting to preserve his life from the man in front of him who had been so determined to take it. No surprise this unexpected extension of goodwill was proceeded immediately by a lingering and uncomfortable silence, in which Miyu once more reflected on the series of poor life decisions that had culminated in this moment of absurdity and wished that she could be anywhere else than where she was right now. Particularly in that moment the comfort of the bed in her rundown apartment called beckoningly for her and she wondered why she had ever bothered to wake up at all.

Maybe she didn't? There was still hope for that, although it was fading rapidly. Maybe this was all some elaborate dream concocted from cheap alcohol and whatever illicit narcotics might have been slipped inside to add that extra kick. Maybe right now she was back at her place, face down in a pile of her own vomit riding out one hell of a trip. But she doubted that.

She'd never been that lucky, despite that horrible racists stereotype non-felinoid sentinels thought so amusing.

Clearly the Jedi Master came to a similar realization, as he hesitantly accepted the offered assistance. And that had sure looked funny. Even in his assistance the bounty was not gentle, pulling the human up from the ground with enough force to lift him off his feet, with one hand of course. She'd be remiss to exclude a mention of how physically capable this super armored crazy bastard was. Although, rather than throwing the force user through a wall as all present expected, the armored hunter instead set the Jedi on his feet, albeit rather roughly.

Then he clapped the Jedi on the shoulder, once again with great strength, nearly sending the human male back to the floor. Having stayed standing only by the dreg remnant of his tenacity, and the supporting shoulder of his padawan, the once proud and regal Jedi General, now hunched like an old man, fixed the towering monolith of armor and instability with an ambiguous frown.

"What are you playing at, mando?"

"Lok." The giant grunted patiently, his tone consistently and bewilderingly friendly. "Call me Lok, not mando. I find mando to be patronizing."

The Jedi Master huffed sardonically. "Then call me Kota. I find _Jetii _to be patronizing."

The newly identified bounty hunter inclined his head respectfully in agreement, and Miyu once more was at a loss. For two guys ready to decapitate each other not ten minutes ago, they were being awfully chummy. Even the little padawan looked out of the loop, and he was in this from the beginning. Then again, she wondered if it was worth the effort to think on anything too hard. The world stopped making sense the moment the little short stop of a padawan slammed into her chest. Right now, she was just kind of riding this insane and totally not disingenuous high.

Honestly, who needed drugs when your life was this crazy?

Unmindful of her inner and slightly unhinged monologue, the mandalorian bounty hunter took a notably elegant backstep from the Jedi, and gestured politely towards the open and deserted street. "Well then… _Kota_." He intoned softly; his inflection as courteous and regal as a Coruscanti aristocrat.

"_Leave."_

The world reversed as the mandalorian's tone twisted to something unpleasant.

Of course, being a Jedi, instead of taking this unexpected windfall of opportunity at face value, he felt the need to poke the mudhorn.

"Why are you just letting us go?"

He asked the question even as Miyu was fully prepared to mosey on off to somewhere far away from this madness. The only reason she hadn't made an attempt yet was only in the implicate realization that such an action would most probably turn attention upon her. Though, to be fair to the Jedi's intelligence, he could not be blamed for his overwhelming curiosity. Clearly Lok had invested a great deal of time and effort to claim this bounty. Most people did not fight Jedi or argue with imperial authority. Seriously, not even at the worst of times.

So, it could be construed as odd that he would be so willing to let the Jedi walk right when he was right at the precipice of obtaining what he had striven to acquire.

"There is no satisfaction to be had for earning a quarry unjustly." Lok explained casually. "The Empire's interference has… soured, my appetite. Besides…" He shrugged apathetically. If I found you once, I can find you again."

By the way Kota's expression flattened it was clear he was not entirely satisfied by the response.

Not that Miyu could blame him.

"Shove off then." Lok grunted dismissively, gesturing for the pair of force users to leave much like one might to bothersome pests that had invited themselves in where they were not wanted. "I suggest you depart before more imperial forces arrive." His recommendation was punctuated neatly by the distant howl of sirens drawing nearer. "If you were to be apprehended by such bumbling incompetents well… I would be sorely disappointed."

Nothing happened at first. Kota and the padawan remained where they were for a time, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, and when, unexpectedly, the other size thirteen boot didn't kick them in the ass, the Jedi Master grabbed the small canine by the wrist and turned to leave, giving the mandalorian what was perhaps the most confused nod of gratitude she had ever seen.

Miyu watched them leave, glad at least, that the kid would be alright. Personally, she was rather exhausted by this whole sordid affair, and so, dusting off her paws at another job somewhat fairly accomplished in a way that was nice, turned and left, ready to make her way back to her own bounty in hopes of making something out of this raging hailstorm.

Or so at least she would have, if not for her terrible, terrible luck.

"Not so fast." The bounty hunter tutted like a scolding parent, placing a hand on her shoulder in a crushing grip. How he moved so fast or so quietly was something she would likely never know

"Someone is going to have to take the fall for this, and it certainly won't be me."

And there was really only one way to react to that.

Miyu sighed heavily.

"Fuck me."


End file.
